Lost and Found
by Arwen Jade Kenobi
Summary: I reach for him but only our fingers touch


I reach out to him but only our fingers touch. He was already gone from me before I turned my head. I only turned my head because of his yell. It is very rare, rarer than one might think, for him to call for aid. I ask so much of him and he demands so little of me; it is the least that I can do that I answer his calls for aid.

I reach out to him but only our fingers touch. He falls off the carriage and it is too dark for me to see where he lands and if he landed on solid earth instead of falling into the raging river below us.

I reach out to him but only our fingers touch. I watch him fall, watch the darkness take him from my sight, and I can feel something in me break. We've never been separated like this before; we've never taken leave of each other like this before. My body is dealing with my – _his_ – assailant but my mind is lost in a maelstrom of emptiness. He is lost and therefore I am as well.

Sometime, long ago it seems, I told him that iI was lost without my Boswell. I never imagined how lost I would be.

I hear a shout and a splash and my heart stops. I reach forward, grab the reins and pull the carriage to a stop. Some part of my brain, I'm surprised that it is still functioning in this vacuum of half existence, informs me that there is a murderer on the loose and that I should ride onward to report the happenings of the night to my client.

The case should take precedence over everything, even personal concerns, but I cannot do it. Had this been earlier in my career it would be absurdly simpler. I allowed myself personal concerns, and therefore allowed myself the potential to be compromised, the moment I invited Watson to take part in my cases. I let him to my life though. I do not regret and I cannot shut him out now, not even for the benefit of the case.

I jump off the carriage and start running toward the river. It is only about a six foot distance from the road to the edge of the ledge and I look down into the river. I see a coat hanging off the side, not Watson's. I breathe a sigh of relief. Our quarry must have been thrown from the carriage, by the speed or by myself, and is clearly of no trouble to us anymore. It would have been more useful to the case to have him alive but I will not mourn him. Aside from being a part of a fiendish crime, he touched Watson. He has no doubt harmed him if not killed him. I swear I feel my very blood begin to boil at the thought. If Watson is dead…

I abandon all reason and rush down the road, screaming his name like a lost child crying for his mother. It is utterly humiliating but I cannot stop myself. Watson's name echoes down the road. I do not find him along the road, and a glimmer of hope soars within me. There is the forest ahead and the fall to the river is much further away than it is on the road.

Did we actually make it this far though? I hadn't looked into the river. I hadn't looked for any signs that he had fallen off into the river. I ignored a perfectly logical line of reasoning because I cannot bear to think of it.

The image of Watson falling plays before me again. I thought that once my eyes had ceased to function once his fingers brushed past mine but I see now that the darkness that swallowed him was provided by heavy branches and thick leaves. He is in the forest.

It would be more prudent of me to walk, to investigate the signs he might have left when he hit the ground. The proximity to potentially finding him and the certainty that he is not in the river has me rushing in there in a crazed frenzy, shouting his name again. "A sign!" I bellow. "If cannot answer give me a sign!"

No response. Only an owl hoots eerily in the darkness. I spot a log and settle myself on it, burying my face in my cold hands. I need to master myself. I cannot find him if I cannot master myself.

I hear a moan. A moan of someone just coming awake to a world of pain. The moan itself is not familiar to me but the voice making it is. "Watson?" I yell out again.

Another moan, this time a little louder and stronger and emanating a few feet in front of me. I don't run but I move swiftly, keeping my eyes to the ground and looking to my left, where the road and the forest meet. I see him immediately and it is then that I run.

He is lying on his back, eyes shut but at least consciousness if not totally awake. His fingers are moving slightly, as if he still trying to grab my hand, as are his feet. I am greatly pleased to see those movements. No irreparable harm has been done. I kneel by his head. "Watson? Can you open your eyes?"

It takes him a few moments but he manages to force them open enough. "Holmes?" he asks, his voice choked with pain.

I place a hand on his forehead. "Yes, old man," I assure him. "How do you feel?"

He snorts. "How do you imagine?" His voice his stronger and he is able to jest. I swear that my companion is the most resilient man who has ever lived. I almost think he could have his arm severed from his body and simply describe it as a scratch. Then he'd go off to fight a battle or complete some other heroic task.

"My imagination can conjure, and has conjured, many responses to that question," I tell him. "Do you think you can stand?"

He considers it for a moment and nods carefully. "I'm going to need help though." The fact that he is admitting weakness is something striking. The leg closest to mine is his wounded one. I will be most useful on this side of him. With as much care I can I help him sit up and then we manage to stand up.

"How long is it to the Berkshire's estate?" he asks as soon as he is able. He's breathing heavily and is obviously working to not lose his balance or his grasp on consciousness.

"Ten miles," I say before I can even think of lying.

Watson sighs and then attempts a shrug. "Well, better get started then. Hopefully someone will be looking for us."

It is unlikely and we both know it. It is going to be a long walk, and we will certainly have to stop several times. I find myself untroubled by the walk itself and Watson does not seemed too bothered either. "I can make it," he tells me soon after I realise I've been staring at him for a long moment. "_We_ can make it," he amends with a squeeze to my shoulder.

Yes we can. I agree both to myself and aloud. Together we take that first step toward the road and then walk on into the night.

There are several places I'd rather be geographically but that would mean leaving my Boswell behind, which I will not do. Not after I have found him again. We may be lost in the dark right now, but I am grateful that we are lost together.


End file.
